Lowdown (First Time Blacked)

College

From the bedroom down the hall, I could hear Jessica sobbing.

They were quiet, muffled sobs, the kind you make when you're trying not to bother your roommates with the full-blown panic attack you're having. She’d gotten her Visa statement. The spring break trip to Cabo that she’d put on the card—the one she thought she’d pay off with her summer waitressing job—had maxed her out.

The interest alone was more than her half of the rent.

I was failing Econ. The irony was so thick I felt like I was choking on it. I was drowning in the practical application of the theories I couldn't even begin to understand on paper.

I pushed the textbook away. It was useless. I picked up my phone, the screen a bright, welcoming escape from the greenish gloom of my life. My thumb swiped instinctively to Instagram.

The first picture on my feed was Tiffany from Kappa Kappa Gamma. She was standing on the bow of a massive yacht, her back arched, a champagne flute in her hand. The water behind her was a shade of impossible turquoise. The caption read: Just another boring Tuesday in St. Barts! #daddysgirl

A hot, acidic wave of pure fucking envy burned the back of my throat.

It was a sick joke. What had Tiffany ever done to deserve that life?

She was born into it, that’s all, and so she floated through her classes, her tuition paid, her future secured, while I sat here in a shitbox apartment that smelled like failure, highlighting sentences about market forces I couldn't control.

My phone buzzed. A text from Tyler.

Need to see u. Come over.

It was a booty call. He was probably stressed about practice, or had lost another bet, and wanted a quick, thoughtless release. He wanted me to come over, put out for ten minutes, and then listen to him complain about the coach.

Jessica’s sobbing from the bedroom got a little louder, a heartbreaking little hiccup of despair.

The red bill on the corkboard seemed to glow in the dark.

I looked at the picture of Tiffany on the yacht one more time, the sheer, effortless ease of her life mocking me from behind the cracked screen of my phone.

I felt trapped. Utterly, completely trapped.

I pushed myself up from the sticky table, my cheap cotton dress feeling flimsy and pathetic against my skin. I needed to get out of this apartment.

I texted Tyler back.

On my way.

**

The air in Tyler’s apartment complex was different.

The university leased these units specifically for the scholarship athletes.

They were newer, cleaner, and didn't have the lingering smell of desperation and old pizza that clung to every surface of my building.

Here, the carpets were a clean, industrial grey, the walls were freshly painted, and the air hummed with the quiet, efficient thrum of central air conditioning.

I knocked on the door of 314. The sound was a sharp rap that echoed slightly in the quiet hallway.

The door swung open. Tyler was standing there, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of grey athletic shorts that hung low on his hips.

He was still damp from the shower, his tight, dark curls glistening with water, a white towel slung over his broad shoulder.

The stark white of the cotton stood out sharply against the deep, rich brown of his skin.

He smelled like expensive deodorant and a raw, musky scent.

He didn't smile.

"Hey," he grunted, stepping back to let me in.

I walked past him into the living room. It was sparse, almost sterile.

A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, an Xbox underneath it.

A black leather sofa—probably provided by the university or by the boosters—was pushed against the other.

On the coffee table, a half-eaten protein bar sat next to a thick playbook binder.

It was a room built for one purpose: football.

"Tough practice?" I asked, dropping my keys on the small kitchen counter.

"Coach is riding my ass," Tyler mumbled, tossing his wet towel onto the arm of the sofa. "Keeps saying I'm a step slow on the coverage drills."

He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, chugging half of it in one long, noisy swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I watched him, my arms crossed over my chest. This was the routine.

He would complain about practice, about the coach, about the first-string safety who he thought was getting preferential treatment.

My job was to listen, to nod, to tell him he was great, that the coach was blind.

It was part of the unspoken contract of dating an athlete.

We were their emotional support staff. We absorbed their stress, bandaged their egos, and kept them primed so they could perform on Saturday.

Because if they performed on Saturday, they might get noticed. They might go pro. And a pro-contract wasn't just a way out for him; it was a way out for us. That was the dream we were all chasing, the silent, desperate hope that kept girls like me showing up at 10 PM on a Tuesday.

Tyler finished his Gatorade and tossed the empty bottle into the overflowing trash can. He turned and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since I'd walked in.

His eyes weren't angry or stressed anymore. They were dark with a different kind of hunger. He walked over to me, closing the space between us. He backed me up against the kitchen counter, his hands landing on my hips, his thumbs rubbing small, insistent circles on my hipbones.

"You look tired," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

"Midterm tomorrow," I said, my own hands coming up to rest on his bare, muscular chest. His skin was warm, radiating heat.

"Fuck the midterm," he said.

He leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard, demanding, his mouth tasting of artificial fruit punch and frustration. He pushed his hips forward, grinding his groin against me. Through his athletic shorts, I could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my stomach.

He broke the kiss, his breathing heavy. His big black hands slid down from my hips, one clamping onto my ass, squeezing the flesh through my cheap cotton dress, while the other hand slid up my leg, bunching the fabric around my thigh.

I moaned to encourage him.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pushed them to the side.

My chest tightened, cutting off my air. His calloused fingertips, rough from gripping weights and footballs, scraped against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

I wasn't particularly wet—my mind was still a chaotic mess of macroeconomic theory and the red PAST DUE notice on my corkboard—but my body recognized the familiar, Pavlovian signal.

This was what he wanted. This was my role. My job.

"Tyler," I started to say, a weak protest, but he cut me off.

He didn't shove his fingers inside me. He wasn't that crude. He just hooked his leg around mine, pulled my hips flush against the kitchen counter, and hoisted me up.

"Oof," I grunted as my ass hit cold granite.

He stepped between my thighs, pushing my legs wide open. He fumbled with the drawstring of his athletic shorts, pushing them down just enough to free his cock.

It sprang free, a thick, heavy length of dark meat, already fully erect.

Tyler was blessed. He had the kind of casual, impressive dick that was probably a locker room legend—long, thick, and perfectly straight.

It was a locker-room legend kind of dick—thick, dark, and heavy enough to actually do damage—the kind of dick that was supposed to get drafted in the first round.

He grabbed my hips, tilted my pelvis up, and drove himself inside me.

It hurt going in. Always did. I gasped as he bottomed out. He was so fucking big that it was always a tight fit at first, a brief, burning friction before my cunt remembered how to accommodate him. He slid deep, his pubic bone grinding against my clit with a practiced, efficient motion.

Neither of us spoke.

Then he started to move.

He fucked me with the same single-minded focus he applied to his coverage drills.

His rhythm was steady, powerful, and completely impersonal.

He was using my body to work out the stress and frustration of his day.

His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes were staring blankly at the wall like he was punishing me for a blown coverage drill.

I lay back on the cold counter, my hands gripping the polished edge, my cheap dress bunched up around my waist. I stared up at the generic white popcorn ceiling of his university-provided apartment.

“You're so fucking tight,” he panted. “I bet half the coaching staff would like to wreck this cunt. Bet they'd start me every game if I let them pass you around. Maybe I should, you know? You’d like it wouldn’t you.” I flinched, but I forced a moan.

It was just dirty talk. Just Tyler blowing off steam.

“You know I would, baby. Anything for you.”

I tried to get into it. I tried to match his dirty talk, tried to match his rhythm, to let the pounding I was getting override the anxiety buzzing in my brain.

He was good at this, in a purely mechanical sense.

He had that big black monster cock. He knew how to hit the right spots, how to use his hips to create a deep, grinding pressure against my g-spot.

My body responded on pure instinct, my cunt growing slick around him, my hips starting to buck weakly against his thrusts.

But my mind was a million miles away.

With every slam of his pelvis against mine, I wasn't thinking about him. I was thinking about the red bill on my corkboard.

Thrust. (Did I pay the gas bill this month?)

Thrust. (My student loan payment is due on the first.)

Thrust. (Tiffany is sleeping on a yacht in St. Barts.)

He was grunting now, his breathing growing heavier, the sweat starting to bead on his forehead. He was getting close.

I knew what he needed. He needed to hear me.